


marshmallow

by rillrill



Series: Revolutionary Whore [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Food Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:51:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell her you had your dear Laurens around for supper,” Laurens says, hands running along Alexander’s shoulders again, “and that with our general lack of self-control—”  </p><p>“Beg pardon, I’ve got plenty of that.”  </p><p>“Says the man bound to his drawing room chair. You’ll tell her that we devoured them all,” says Laurens, lascivious and suddenly close to his ear again. “If I know Angelica, she’ll understand.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	marshmallow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Tumblr prompt: Ham/Laurens sharing a dessert + bondage.

Alexander is bored. Sent home for the month after a spat with Washington, he has found himself alone for the weekend — Eliza with her father and sisters, their marital home cold and empty. But the unexpected knock on the door late that evening proves to be worth answering, dangerous as it may be in these times.  
  
“Laurens!” Alexander can’t contain his surprise or delight at the mess of curls and tan, freckled complexion grinning at him on the doorstep. “South Carolina couldn’t contain you, I see?”  
  
Laurens grins a little wider as Alexander steps aside to let him in. “Not presently. Surprised?”  
  
“As ever,” says Alexander. “You’ll forgive me. The house is a bit untidy, but with my Betsey out of the city for the week—”  
  
Laurens lifts both eyebrows. “How do you manage without her?” he asks, only a hint of suggestiveness to his voice, and Alexander pauses before matching his tone.  
  
“Truth be told, I have been… better,” he says. “It’s easy to become accustomed to a certain set of hands, you know.”  
  
“Ah,” Laurens laughs. He removes his overcoat, draping it over a chair, already making himself at home in the way Alexander has always loved. “That’s a pity. I can empathize, though, you know as well as I do the luxury of a familiar set of hands…”  
  
His eyes linger too long on Alexander’s, and he need not be convinced much further to play along. In an instant, he pulls Laurens to him for a needy kiss, his skin singing with the old, familiar want and need. Laurens smiles against his lips, his manner laid bare. He doesn’t have to convince Alexander of anything, really. He never did. They both know why he came here tonight, showed up on the doorstep uninvited and unannounced. And Alexander can’t claim to be surprised. He has missed this.  
  
He pulls away slowly, Laurens’ hand brushing over his chin and bottom lip as he does.  
  
“Slow down, my dear Laurens,” he smirks, and they both flush a little at the old pet name. “Sit. Let’s have coffee.”  
  
Laurens shrugs, good-natured, as he takes a seat on the drawing room sofa. “I wouldn’t say no to a whiskey, if you’ve got it,” he says, and Alexander stifles a laugh.  
  
“South Carolina has ruined you for our northern tastes,” he says. “Wine?”  
  
“I’ll take it,” Laurens says, his eyes shining. He reaches out to a box on an end table, fine pink tied with string. “What’ve you got here?”  
  
Alexander shrugs as he fills two cups with wine. “Angelica brought them along with her when she came to collect her sister,” he says. “A new kind of confection, from Paris. She called it _guimauve_. Says they’re brand new in France.”  
  
“Angelica _would_ be up to date on such a trifle,” Laurens laughs. “Your sister is a continental, that one.” He unties the string and lifts the lid, revealing four little pink cubes. “That’s it, then?”  
  
“I suppose,” Alexander shrugs as he hands Laurens his wine and sits down heavily beside him.  
  
For a moment, there is silence. And Alexander takes the moment to look, really look, at his dearest friend. His oldest love. Handsome as ever, still boyish about the face, at ease as he relaxes into the couch. Even if Laurens hadn’t come calling for carnal reasons, Alexander would feel compelled to seduce him anyway.  
  
“Laurens,” he says after a moment. “Do you remember the night… years ago? At the inn near Kings College?”  
  
Laurens’ eyes alight with the memory. The answer, clearly, is yes. “With the…”  
  
“That’s the one,” Alexander says agreeably.  
  
He needn’t say anything else, it seems. Laurens finishes his wine in a single draw and then kisses him softly, deepening it with parted lips as Alexander’s hands fly up to cup the sides of his jaw and throat.  
  
“Yes,” Laurens says, pulling away, and Alexander smiles.  
  
  
Twenty minutes later he is bound, to the drawing room chair with a set of twisted sheets in lieu of ropes. His hands flex instinctively as he tugs at his bonds, and then the room goes dark as Laurens knots his cravat around his eyes.  
  
He hates that he loves it, being restrained like this. He finds the loss of control comforting in its own way. As unfamiliar as the sensation once was, he has come to crave it. Being held down, tied, pinned — it feels safe, somehow, when it’s Laurens or Washington tying the knots. Even Eliza pulls it out of him, with her long legs that cage and trap him so eagerly, lulling him into a sense of blissful submission as her hands pet his hair and he applies his lips and tongue with all the concentration the task requires. Everything sets aflame this strange desire within him: to be used, an object, to simply be had.  
  
When it’s Laurens at the reins, all the better. He takes down Alexander’s hair from its ponytail, letting it down about his shoulders, and then slowly runs his hands through it. Torturously slow, finger by finger, scratching and tugging and scraping lightly at his scalp until the skin all over his body is a mess of gooseflesh.  
  
He is still mostly dressed, stripped down to his breeches and undershirt, but it is enough to draw Laurens’ attention. “Are you cold, Alexander?” he teases, blowing a stream of cool, ticklish air on the back of Alexander’s neck before trailing the same feather-light touch over his shoulders and upper arms. The sensation is almost unbearably light, and he arches his back where he’s tied down, desperately aching for a more solid point of contact.  
  
“I seem to have caught a draft,” Alexander says, attempting a straight face. He can’t see, but he feels Laurens’ hands vanish, feels the cool rush of air over his exposed skin as he walks away.  
  
“Pity,” says Laurens. “The room is rather warm for my taste.”  
  
“Perhaps you should remove some of your own clothing.” Alexander strives to keep his voice level and seductive, but Laurens only laughs in response.  
  
“What a waste that would be, given your current predicament,” he chuckles. “Perhaps a snack might warm you instead.”  
  
There’s the soft chuff of a box lid and the crinkle of a bit of paper, and then Alexander smells something sugar-sweet being held up to his lips. His tongue darts out experimentally. It’s one of the confections from Paris.  
  
“Go on,” Laurens urges, rubbing it softly against Alexander’s parted lips. Summoning all the dignity he has, Alexander opens them further, allowing Laurens to feed him the marshmallow, his first.  
  
It’s chewy, unexpectedly so, and very sweet. Alexander can’t help the slight grimace that comes to his face. He has never been one for sweets; he has a more savory palate. Laurens laughs again, another quiet, amused chuckle, and cups Alexander under the chin. “The verdict?”  
  
Alexander swallows, and lifts his shoulders in as much of a shrug as he can manage. “Try for yourself,” he says. “Angelica has always impressed me with her particular tastes, but this one, perhaps, is not so much in line with my own.”  
  
He can hear Laurens chewing, audible even through a closed mouth, and grinds his teeth a little in annoyance at the noise. “Delicious,” Laurens says decisively after Alexander hears him swallow. “Then again, Angelica and I have always shared a taste for — the sweeter things, shall we say.”  
  
“Do you honestly mean to compare me to a French dessert?” Alexander asks, his mock tone rising to conceal a hint of real affront. “Take that back.”  
  
“You’re a foreign import, a bit of an acquired taste,” Laurens says, his own voice just as full of mirth. “Forgive me for drawing what I see as an obvious comparison.”  
  
“I’m not nearly as soft,” Alexander mutters, and Laurens laughs again.  
  
“Yet you always melt for me.”  
  
Another marshmallow nudges at his lips, and Alexander grudgingly accepts it, wishing he could only see Laurens’ expression — knows he must be grinning, barely holding back. He chews and swallows. It is an acquired taste, not so overwhelmingly sweet now that he’s gotten used to it. No more than the custards and rice puddings Eliza makes when they entertain dinner guests. “It isn’t bad,” he says, licking his lips of powdered sugar, and he hears Laurens eat another.  
  
“Careful,” he says, “not to finish the box. What will Angelica say?”  
  
“Tell her you had your dear Laurens around for supper,” Laurens says, hands running along Alexander’s shoulders again, “and that with our general lack of self-control—”  
  
“Beg pardon, I’ve got plenty of that.”  
  
“Says the man bound to his drawing room chair. You’ll tell her that we devoured them all,” says Laurens, lascivious and suddenly close to his ear again. “If I know Angelica, she’ll understand.”  
  
He runs his thumb along Alexander’s lips, pressing down slightly on the bottom one, and Alexander obediently parts his lips and closes them around John’s thumb, licking up the dusting of powdered sugar left there. He hears Laurens moan, and Alexander feels his cock twitch, stiffen a little more, and echoes that moan himself.  
  
Laurens pulls his hand away, and Alexander feels another set of lips barely brushing along his own. He pushes his head forward, closes what gap is left between them, and normally Laurens would tease him, pull back and draw it out longer, but he thinks their time apart has made John a little more desperate, a little less inclined to play. There is a hand in his hair and another pressing down on his shoulder as Laurens deepens the kiss. God in heaven, he’s missed this, the way their mouths seem to fit so perfectly together, their breath coming in short tandem pants. Laurens’ mouth has always had a more refined touch, but Alexander kisses messily, needily, like he’s trying to suck the juice from a ripe peach.  
  
He wishes he could _see_. He tugs uselessly at where his arms are bound to the chair, his wrists and hands flexing and clenching automatically, but the only result are Laurens’ hands sliding down to encircle his wrists there. “Patience, Alexander,” he admonishes, between laying hot kisses on his jaw. “All in good time, I promise.”  
  
“You, of all people, would know that being reminded to have patience only exacerbates my lack of it,” Alexander laughs in response. One of the hands on his wrists moves to his crotch instead, and he gasps a little at the sudden, almost rough contact. Laurens kisses his neck again, unlacing his breeches one-handed as Alexander gasps. It’s happening faster now, no time wasted, and as Laurens gets his pants undone, Alexander lifts his hips just enough to help get them shucked down to his thighs. The effect is another sort of trap, rendering his cock free against his belly but Alexander himself unable to move his legs much more. He squirms against all his restraints at once, and Laurens sucks a bruise onto his neck as he wraps his free hand around Alexander’s cock and begins to stroke him off.  
  
“Patience is a virtue,” John murmurs against his throat, nipping a little for emphasis, punctuation. Alexander groans, bucking his hips up against him.  
  
“I have no virtue,” he says, “I freely admit it.”  
  
Laurens laughs out loud at this. “Very well,” he says. “So long as you’re honest.”  
  
He scrapes his teeth across Alexander’s throat one final time, then pulls away. There’s a flurry of motion, and then Alexander feels hot breath on the tip of his cock, and gasps. “Wait,” he says, before he can stop himself. “Please. I want to see, John.”  
  
There’s a beat, a moment of silence, and then Laurens murmurs, “Of course.” He rips the cravat from Alexander’s eyes, and blinking as his eyes adjust to the sudden intrusion of lamplight, Alexander takes it in: Laurens, kneeling between his spread legs, a look of pure desire on his face as he runs both hands up Alexander’s thighs. The soft light dances off his skin, his freckles, the messy hair swept back off his face, and he looks younger than his years as he looks up, before slowly doubling over and taking Alexander in his mouth.  
  
The velvet-soft heat and Laurens’ hands, gripping tight on his thighs, are almost too much. Alexander clenches his jaw, tries to restrain himself, thinks of more boring, pressing matters. His face is hot and he can feel sweat beading on his hairline, and his lower lip is chapped from where he’s chewed half the skin off in anticipation. “Please,” he says again, and Laurens makes a little sound of assent around his cock, the vibrations adding to the intensity. “John, love, don’t tease me, just—”  
  
He breaks off into a wordless moan as Laurens digs his fingers harder into his thighs, taking him deeper into his mouth. His head bumps against the back of John’s throat, and he half expects him to pull away, but instead, those dark eyes flick up to his and hold a searing gaze as he stays steady, taking him to the hilt. And the eye contact is enough — the heat, the pressure, John’s soft beautiful mouth, and it’s all too much, sends him hurtling over the precipice in an instant of bliss. Alexander gasps, pulling at his bonds, desperate to run his fingers through those messy curls as John sucks him through it, finally pulling off after the final aftershocks.  
  
Laurens lays his head on Alexander’s thigh, still crouched on the floor between his spread legs. “It’s good to see,” he says, “that you’ve become no less predictable in my time away.”  
  
Alexander laughs hoarsely, his head still spinning as he comes down from his high. “Untie me, my dear Laurens,” he murmurs. “I’ve had too many nights alone to entertain… certain fantasies.”  
  
A hazy half-smile, and Laurens pats his thigh affectionately as he stands, resting his forehead against Alexander’s before kissing him once, softly, his breath salty and bitter and familiar and right. “I look forward to your disquisitions on their contents,” he says, as he loosens the first of the sheets binding Alexander to the chair.  
  
“You’ll enjoy them, I’m certain.”  
  
“I’m sure.”  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, marshmallows weren't really a thing in Paris until the early 19th century, and probably weren't brought stateside for a few years after that, but like, suspension of disbelief. (Plus, Angelica seems like the type of lady to be on the vanguard of whatever trendy things were happening in bakeries and candy shops anyway. If she were alive today, she would have been into cronuts before cronuts were even a thing.)


End file.
